Merry Christmas, Dr Watson
by DefineNormalitee
Summary: Advent style drabbles about our favourite detective and co. Chapter Six: "Sherlock Holmes has seen precisely 336 dead bodies in his life. But he has never - not once - been to a funeral. And it isn't how he imagined it to be."
1. First Steps

**December 1****st****, 2003**

It began the way it always did; it started with an end.

"It wasn't the mechanic."

The man behind the desk with the too-big suit and the sweat beading on his prematurely wrinkled forehead starts and reaches for his gun. He fumbles with the desk drawer before he can get it open, grabbing at a non-existent handle that's several inches to the right of where it should be. The man leaning against the office door merely observes this with a hint of a smile on his face. When the man behind his desk finally gets at his gun and holds it out in front of him, he sees a hint of disappointment on the dark haired intruder's face.

"How did you get in?"

Again, that strange glimmer of disappointment. The leaning man does not move an inch save to shake his head just a fraction of an inch. He repeats himself, slowly this time, in a way that makes the seated man feel like an ignorant child. "It wasn't the mechanic."

"Who are you?"

Disappointment once again. The strange newcomer sighs and pulls his hands from his pockets. The man at the desk twitches at this sudden movement but the other man ignores him, pulling off his gloves and raising his hands to rub at his temples impatiently with closed eyes.

"Why? Why do they never ask the right questions?" The worker frowns at this, but before he can answer the other man's eyes open. "Are you even listening to me, Detective? Oh, I'm so sorry - " his eyes flicker with amusement as they take in the shiny new badge that sits too straight on the older man's chest – too shiny. New. Pride has shone that badge, and straightened it on his chest to line up with the top button of his shirt. "Detective _Inspector_. Congratulations on the promotion. I expect Sally _will _be pleased."

Hands tighten on the pistol.

"What do you want?"

"Now we're getting somewhere," the man breathes. He leans forward. He's enjoying this. The DI can see it in his eyes. "But the question, Detective Inspector, does not concern what _I _want - " he cocks his head to the side, and once again the older man feels like a ridiculed child. "But what _you _want?"

The DI takes a moment to think about this. "What _do _I want?" He asks, childish almost in his hope that someone will please, God, _please _provide an answer.

"I can't tell you that, I'm afraid. What I _can _tell you, however, is what you _don't _want."

"What's that?"

"The mechanic."

Silence. The DI ponders, staring, grip on his gun slackened by curiosity and consuming confusion. The leaning man straightens and raises an eyebrow. Waiting… waiting to be unimpressed.

"Why."

It isn't a question.

"Footprints."

"Footprints?"

"Footprints."

The DI pauses again. He frowns.

"There weren't any."

"_Exactly_." The other man breathes. Upon receiving no response, he clicks his fingers, impatient. The sudden noise makes the older man jump. The dark man, pacing now, ignores him.

"_Think_ about it, Lestrade! Just take a minute and _think!_ This man – your suspect – works in a garage all day. He steps in oil and grease and god knows what _all day _for a living and there are no footprints at the scene of the crime?"

The DI processes this. "He might have… cleaned them?"

Before he can finish his sentence, the other man is shaking his head. "No, no, _no! _Witnesses say they saw him leave the garage at precisely seven minutes past three. Tests show that the victim's brakes were cut exactly one hour before she died – "

"Hang on – whose tests?"

"Mine, shut up. So given that this alleged murderer must have arrived at the scene at exactly ten past three. It's a two minute walk from the garage to the victim's house, which means that yes, there would still be traces of oil on the bottom of your alleged killer's shoes, and no, he wouldn't have had time to clean them."

Breathless, the pacing man came to a standstill.

"He could have changed them."

"No. Your man isn't clever enough for that. You saw it, I saw it, even Donovan saw it. What kind of killer has the attention to detail to go out of his way to change oily shoes and yet is idiotic enough to duck his head and walk away when he sees a police car? Furthermore, why would he bother travelling to the victim's home to cut her brakes when he could have done it while she was still at the garage and saved himself the trouble? Someone that _stupid _isn't going to think about how easy it would be to trace it back to him. He's going to think about convenience, and by _God_ man, why are you shaking your head at me?"

Lestrade stares. He puts his gun on the table and leans back in his chair with a blank expression in his eyes. The stranger watches him carefully. Finally –

"Who _are _you?"

A smirk.

"The name's Sherlock Holmes, Detective Inspector," the man who calls himself Sherlock says, his hand on the door. "I'm your new Consultant."

**AN: Yes, I know that was absolute crap and not Sherlock at ALL. Forgive me, please, I'm just warming up!**


	2. It Takes Two

**December 2****nd****, 2009**

"Will you be here all on your own, Sherlock dear?"

Sherlock glances critically at his prospective land lady through the swirling gossamer of steam from the tea she had just handed him before going back to his careful critiquing of the flat.

"I'm afraid I don't follow, Mrs Hudson."

He does. Of course he does. But in this particular case – a one in a million occurrence - he's hoping that he's got it wrong.

"Will there be anyone else here, dear? Anyone special?" He lets her hint in silence, eyes drifting over the sofa that's been oh-so-delicately positioned to hide the growing mould in the wall behind it. He smirks into his tea. "Girlfriend? Wife?" She pauses, watching him. "Boyfriend?"

"Mrs Hudson…" he strides over to the window to check the 360 view of Baker Street and is not disappointed. If anyone comes or goes, he'll know about it. The street lamp directly to the left of the window could be potentially problematic, along with the shop just below, but that's all they will ever be – _potentially_ problematic. He can ruin that business with a single phone call, disable the lamp with a click of a switch. "I consider myself married to my work."

"Oh… it's just such a waste, isn't it? All that space upstairs, the spare bedroom, all empty – well, if you do ever change your mind, dear, you just let me know. It's always nice to have somebody, isn't it? I didn't know how I'd cope when my boy Tom left home – it got awfully lonely sometimes, what with Burt being off in Florida! But I've got Nora next door now, and Janey round the corner – "

"Is it?"

"Sorry, love?"

"Having somebody. Nice. Is it?" He's paused by the table, crouched down, measuring it with his eyes. He doesn't want to admit that he's avoiding the gaze boring into the back of his head.

"I… well, yes, love."

He can't help but spin on his heel to glare at her incredulously. "Really? _All _of you?"

"Of course, love! You'll get that too, one day, darling, I promise!"

"I most sincerely hope _not_," he scoffs, and turns away to pace around the kitchen. He states this as absolute fact, but some part of him wonders if he really means it. Having always shared a quiet, mutual respect for each of the minute, analytical voices in his head, it comes as an unpleasant surprise when one begins to contradict him in a most disturbing manner. _Of course it's not true, _it argues. _You need Lestrade, don't you? You need him to remind you that you're clever. _

He_ needs _me_, _Sherlock argues, paying little interest to the new development that he is now arguing with the voices in his head. He stores this away for later analysis, opening the fridge and assessing it carelessly. _They all do. That's different. _

_And Mrs Hudson? You need _her _to help you. No one else will give you a place to live, will they?_

_Infantile, irrelevant, material trivia, _he scoffs.

_Fine. But one day you'll start to need someone else, too. Someone special. And then you'll know._

Sherlock starts to disagree, but a flicker of past emotion halts him in his tracks. He pictures Lestrade, gazing gleefully up the aisle as he waits to be joined by his ivory bride. (he hadn't been invited, of course, but since when had that ever stopped him?) He considers the more fleeting, more animalistic snatched glances between Donavon and Anderson that he'd caught out of the corner of his eye. Watches once again as young Mrs Taylor – barely eighteen – takes a swan dive off a bridge on the M6 because she'd just learnt that her new husband had been killed.

He recalls all this, feeling as he does so the cocktail of emotions that he felt as strongly as he had then. Disappointment, confusion, and… it is so unfamiliar, he can barely remember its name. But he knows it, as well as he knows that he can identify a doctor by their shoes and a teacher by their earrings.

Jealousy.

_Even if it isn't true, _the voice continued smugly, _you're scared that it could be. You've given this a fair bit of thought, haven't you? You've let Mrs Hudson ramble on and you haven't interrupted once._

Sherlock checked himself immediately; indeed, Mrs Hudson was stammering away about god knows what, looking shocked and awed at her unusually reverent audience.

"I'll take it," he interrupts abruptly. "Now, the matter concerning Florida…"

**AN: Not impressed with this one at all. Far too OOC, but my beta was busy today! (The lovely Arista Holmes – thank you, lovely ^.^) **

**Btw, the bits in italics – the voice in Sherlock's head – I wonder if I did it properly? It was meant to sound a bit like a meaner, more Sherlock-y John. Well, that's how it sounded in my head. Let me know if it didn't work, because it's something I'd love to work on.**

**Review response for the last chapter was incredible, thank you all. Responses to said reviews will follow in the next chapter, to be uploaded in… about three seconds ^.^ **

**LoveMuchly x**


	3. Three's A Crowd

**December 3****rd****, 2010**

"I need to get some air, we're going out tonight."

"Actually, I've uh, got a date."

"What?"

"It's where two people who like each other go out and have fun."

"That's what I was suggesting."

"No, you weren't. At least, I really hope you weren't."

He'd been, for the first time in… well, he doesn't know. For the first time, the details aren't important. What _is _important, however, is how all of a sudden the boredom wasn't quite so… prominent. For the first time in… _ages_, he'd been…

Happy?

Was that it? Was that what that sudden rush whenever he heard the tell tale shuffle of John's limp – the part that wasn't quite so psychosomatic, the real bit – coming up the stairs could be?

He hates that he doesn't know. That's his job, isn't it? That's who he _is._ He's the one who knows everything. The one who can tell you who's shagging who from a mile off with only a fleeting glance and the twitch of a scarf to go on. He _knows. _

He's never… _not known_ before.

It's driving him insane.

In the end – because he _has _to, he can't not know – he gives it a name. It's an addiction. Of _course. _He has to have _something _there; first it had been the drugs, but that had got expensive. And then there had been the smoking, but the smoking ban had made things so _difficult – _it was impossible to think when you were being shepherded out of the police station, regardless of the nicotine pumping around your system. And then there was the skull, but Mrs Hudson didn't like it, so it had to go, dear, couldn't he see how strange it was? And then there was John. Because that was all he was, that strange Doctor Watson; something to replace the addiction.

Easy. Easy as breathing.

But breathing isn't so easy all of a sudden when he looks at _him_ and realises that any minute now he might have to replace his addiction once again.

**AN: Horribly aware of the facts that a) the date for this is very, very wrong… ah well! And b) this is my first attempt at John/Sherlock fluff-type-stuff (hey… that rhymes) and I'm very nervous to know what you guys think!**

**I was asked why, in "First Steps" (Chapter one) Sherlock was quite so obvious about his disappointment and why he wasn't quite as cold/condescending as we see in the series – my answer to this is that I wanted to convey that he was sort of… testing Lestrade. Does that make sense? It's like he was trying him to see whether or not he would be suitable as a companion, or maybe a… kindred spirit? I don't think I managed to convey that properly, though, so thank you for the questions! Keep 'em coming!**

**Review responses, as promised:**

**Miss Matt Smith: Thank you very much! Perhaps you'd be willing to look at another project I was thinking about? I'll PM you when things are a little more concrete :)**

**Time Lord Victorious: you win on every single level, m'dear. Thank you for the feedback, and your comment/question is answered above.**

**Northerlywind: Comment answered above. Any questions for this chapter, feel free, they're always welcome!**

**Cryptic Nymph: Wow, that was a pampering for my ego if there ever was one, you rock ^.^ Thank you!**

**Alora05: I agree, he IS a pain in the ass… but we love him, don't we? xD**

**Tinkrbell225: yes, please do!**

**LoveMuchly x**


	4. Four

**December 4****th****, 2010**

"Four?"

"Four."

"But… why _four?"_

"Your guess is as good as mine."

Silence. Both stare at the tiny, scribbled number that sits, annoyingly peaceful – if numbers can be such things – and impervious to their clueless gaze as though hoping that it might leap out of the crime scene photograph and suddenly, magically, make sense.

"If you were dying – dying like he was, in a lot of pain - why would you write _four_?"

A sigh.

_Golf. Family. Four noble truths, Buddhism. Four Gospels, Christianity. Number of chambers in the mammalian heart. Fourth state of matter; plasma. Fourth element of alchemy; fire. _

"Four… four could mean _anything_."

"Exactly."

John's lost count over the amount of hours they've spend pouring over this number. This tiny, minute detail that could mean _absolutely anything. _Since Donovan faxed them this image – a body, turned away from the camera, with the single number 'four' on a post-it note beside him – this is all they've thought about.

"Think, John! This has to be significant. I can _feel_ it…"

**Two hours later**

_Four rules: addition, subtraction, multiplication, division. Greek classical elements (fire, air, water, earth). Four seasons: spring, summer, autumn, winter. Four parts of a day: night, morning, afternoon, evening. Four cardinal directions: north, south, east, west. Four Temperaments: sanguine, choleric, melancholic, phlegmatic. Four Humors: blood, yellow bile, black bile, phlegm…_

**Forty-five minutes later**

_Evangelists; four. Horsemen of the apocalypse; four. Comic book characters, Fantastic Four. …have I really stooped that low? …Rivers in the Garden of Eden: four…_

**One hour later**

"Hang on… isn't that Donovan's handwriting?"

**AN: I'm aware that this really is rubbish and probably not very funny at all, but I was stuck for a chapter to go with the number "four", and so I wikipedia'd it and this is what I found. Hope you enjoyed my incredible writer's block! Also thank you to Arista Holmes for the beta :)**

**Thank you for the reviews last chapter – they will be answered in chapter 6 :) (which will be along hopefully tonight or possibly tomorrow)**


	5. Number Five

"Sherlock!" he bellows from the bottom of the stairs. "Sherlock, come and help me with this bloody shopping, will you?" As he speaks, he lets one of the over laden bags that is cutting into his hand fall onto the hallway floor rather more heavily than is nessacery. He nudges it with his foot. No answer from upstairs; John glares suspiciously at the ceiling that separates him from the detective. "Sherlock?" he ventures. Still nothing. Perhaps he's gone out. John shrugs to no one and heaves the bags up once more – common sense tells him to take two trips, but soldier's pride ignored it as it often does and always will.

Once he's made the trek up the stairs – with many a stumble and a few choice curse words inbetween – he realises that no, he is not alone; his friend's unruly hair is just visible over the top of the padded sofa's arm.

On any other day, he might have let this go with a mere roll of his eye and a grumble here and there. Not today, however. Today he's dealt with nothing but rude taxi drivers, indignant chip and pin machines (again) and just to top it all off Mrs Hudson has once again refused to return Sherlock's skull, which means that he'll not escape the brunt of the detective's insanely deductive comments for the next few days at least. He drops the bags onto the floor, barely wincing at the _crack _sound that can only mean something bad.

"You heard me calling."

"Yes."

John nods. He hadn't expected anything else, really.

"You didn't come and help me."

"No."

He waits, but no explanation is offered. Anger bubbles up inside him, threatening to rear its deceptively satisfying head at any moment. He takes a deep, shuddering breath and closes his eyes in an effort to ignore the clawing of the beast at his insides.

Finally, he can contain it no more.

"_Sherlock_ – "

"Number Five."

This throws him completely off his tracks. Some of the anger dissipates in his confusion; he frowns, sure that this is a distraction, some elaborate form of mental torture before the real argument begins.

"_What?_"

"Number Five. Barnet Lane. Derbyshire. S33 7ZJ."

The detective speaks in a monotonous drone that John has never heard before. If he's honest, it scares him a little. So much so that for a moment, he disregards the words in order to comprehend the meaning behind them; this proves fruitless, but he can't help noting the flicker of recognition when his attention turns to… his laptop?

"Sherlock… is that my laptop?"

Until now, the thin man curled up tightly on the sofa has kept his back to him; now, however, he turns. John is faced with the full force that is Sherlock Holmes as the other man glares at him as he has never glared before.

"Well observed, Dr Watson. How are you going to amaze us next? Oh, please, _do _share with us the details of… oh, I don't know, your plan to move to Derbyshire?"

John shakes his head, dumbfounded. "A password change every bloody day. That newfangled security update – which, by the way, took no less than twelve hours to install – and you _still_ manage to read my bloody emails."

"Answer the question, John," the detective snaps.

"I – Sherlock, _what?"_

"Number Five, Barnet Lane, John!" he yells. Suddenly, Sherlock is the angry one – he's on his feet, and his eyes are ablaze with something the likes of which John doubts he'll ever see in any other man. "Come on… it's not exactly hard, even for _you lot_!"

"Sherlock, I don't - "

"Please, John, give me a little more credit and don't pull the innocent act," he spits. "You're moving to the country, and you weren't even going to tell me."

"I – what?"

"You're moving, that's what! Don't play the fool, Watson! I've seen this coming for _months _now – who're you going with? No, don't answer. It's Sarah, isn't it?"

"Sherlock - "

"Of course it is. Why do I bother asking? I hope you'll be very happy together, and have lots of cherubim little children, and - "

"Sherlock."

" – and attend county fairs and your biggest worry will be what you're going to call the children - "

"_Sherlock."_

" – and you'll all be DELIGHTFULLY BORING!"

John waits in silence, one eyebrow raised, for the detective to work himself into silence – which he always does, eventually, at the lack of an opposable argument. He stares Sherlock down, waiting for the condescending allowance to defend himself. It doesn't come, however, as the detective rather childishly spins on his heel to turn his back on his doctor and friend. John refrains from an eye roll.

"Sherlock. Do you remember that case – the Glendinnings one?"

No response. John sighs and continues.

"Well Lestrade sent me the address of the sister just in case you changed your mind and decided to take it up… so I thought I'd look it up and save you the time, should you decide to help."

He waits. One. Two. Three.

"Oh."

All is silent in 221B Baker Street for several brilliantly frightening moments. John turns away, for some reason embarrassed by the detective's surprised and – is he imaging it? – thankful expression. It only lasts a moment, but it's still there, he's sure of it. Is this it, he wonders, his back

The least he expects is an apology – a long shot, for that brilliantly cocky man, but still possible. At most? He doesn't know. His heart thumps rapidly in his chest as he considers it. Some expression of his… feelings, maybe? He wonders if he wants to hear them, and his heart races against his mind, dispelling all common sense with each rush of exhilarated joy and fear combined. Then –

"It's about time, Watson. I'd begun to lose all faith in you. Now, the…"

**AN: I really, really like this chapter ^.^ Please R&R, even though there's another chapter just around the corner (review replies in C6)**


	6. Six Feet Under

**December 6****th****, 2017**

Sherlock Holmes has been a consulting detective for just over fifteen years. He has seen precisely 336 dead bodies in his life. He has even helped put one or two of them there himself.

But he has never – not once – been to a funeral.

It isn't how he imagined it.

Thinking about it, now, he's not sure what he'd been expecting – perhaps a few tears from others, a detached sneer at their feebly human weaknesses from him and they all go their separate ways.

Further thought on the matter forces him to conclude that he hadn't expected anything at all. Not being here, not the name on the marble headstone, not… _certainly _not feeling this way.

Like the world has ended.

He stands apart from the gaggle of mourners and does not watch them. Doesn't endure a single flicker of a thought as to what they are gathered around, or what they must think of this intelligently stupid man who refuses to join in their lowly grief. He shoves his hands into his pockets and stares into the distance while they share their mutual affection for one who cannot possibly be moved by it, nor even recognise it at all. Yet even in death one must not be excused for this uncivil lack of recognition for their loss, so they press on, forcing it upon him.

When they have finally moved away – moved on, they say; such a simple concept, yet so difficult for one with half a brain to achieve, and he has so, so much more than that – he slowly approaches. On watching him, a stranger might say that the movement was tentative. An acquaintance might say differently – Sherlock Holmes doesn't _do _tentative, and he _certainly _doesn't do feelings. Everybody knows that. You just have to _look _at him to know that.

But the tears that cleanse away the composed mask that he has always worn prove, as Sherlock Holmes always inadvertently manages to achieve, that seeing is not always believing.

He does not know for how long he stands there, by the chasm so shallow that it has no end. Six feet under, but suddenly he seems so much further away than a mere six feet. He longs to leap into the pit and close the distance between them; even in death, Sherlock Holmes cannot bear to be separated from John Watson, not even for a moment.

Nobody sees him leave, but he must have; turned his back on the capsule that encases his one and only friend and…

Well. Move on.


	7. Seven Years

**December 7****th****, 2017**

"_It is not time or opportunity that is to determine intimacy – it is disposition alone. Seven years would be insufficient to make some people acquainted with each other, and seven days are more than enough for others."- Jane Austen_

Sherlock Holmes awakes with tears in his eyes and a hole in his heart where the hope should be. The fire in his mind, the one that _he _had always said he could see burning behind cold eyes, is gone – not the flicker of an ember that might prove its former existence. Curiosity is dead. The boredom, no longer relevant.

He doesn't know why he does it – doesn't know what _makes _him do it, why he feels _compelled _to force this on himself – but he climbs out of bed and pads down the hall to the deceptively cluttered shell of a room that had, not three weeks past, been occupied at this very time. He stares at the empty bed, forcing himself to recall the vision of that man –_ his _man, he'd thought – curled up amongst his quilts, folded into comfort. He hears the soft sighs of sleeping breath. Peaceful. Serene.

He can't help but wonder… if he made the right choice, getting close to John. Years, it had taken, and the pain of letting it all go in the click of a switch, the blink of an eye…

…the pull of a trigger.

Soft, warm arms fold around him. He relaxes into them as much as his troubled mind will allow and sighs.

"Hey," a voice murmurs by his ear. "Coming back to bed?"

"Yes," Sherlock replies. "Give me two minutes."

The other man hesitates. Sherlock suppresses another sigh as the arms are withdrawn, leaving him alone once more and easy prey to his cold thoughts.

He spares a single glance for John's old room before turning on his heel and following its former occupant to his own – _their _own, leaving nightmares and dreams alike behind him.

Until tomorrow.

**AN: Helloooo! I don't know how many of you got this… we'll see, shall we? Please review if you have any questions; this chapter is one of my favourites and I'd hate for you to not enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it!**

**Review responses, as promised:**

**Time Lord Victorious – Perfectly valid argument – I'm torn between enjoying the chemistry and wanting more, myself. I guess I went for the slash angle as it's easier to write and not as difficult to get caught up in, if that makes any sense. Also, thank you for laughing at Chapter Four ^.^ Aaaaand I LOVE your DP! Made my day xD**

**Alora05 – ohhh, my ego is so fat right now xD thank you m'dear! Hope the John/Sherlock dynamic in these two chapters was okay =S**

**Miss Matt Smith – (first of all, love the name, he's quite absurdly sexy, isn't he?) Also, your review made me feel all warm and mushy inside xD THANK YOU!**

**SarahElizabeth1993 – I hope you enjoyed this, thank you for reviewing xD**


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